


In Vino Veritas

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-15
Updated: 2006-06-15
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Fourth in the Things My Brother Taught Me series. Warnings: Wincest, strong language, mention of violence and a little oogy gore. Oh, and a quick appearance by a random hell beastie. No objectionable (or not) teen sex scenes this time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

In Vino Veritas

Title: In Vino Veritas  
Author: Hellskitten  
Email: crissyd33@yahoo.com  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Pairing: S/D  
Rating: NC-17   
Warnings: Wincest, strong language, mention of violence and a little oogy gore. Oh, and a quick appearance by a random hell beastie. No objectionable (or not) teen sex scenes this time.  
Spoilers: Some from the episode “Asylum”, but this is mostly AU.  
Disclaimer: The boys and all their angst-ridden hotness belong to the WB.  
Soundtrack: “Would?” by Alice in Chains  
  
*******  
  
With his heart pounding, Sam sat bolt upright in bed. “Dad?”  
  
The line crackled with radio silence and then John spoke. “Sammy? Is that you?”  
  
Sam took a deep breath, then found he needed another before he could answer. “Yeah, it’s me. Are you all . . .”  
  
“Where’s Dean?”  
  
“He’s here with me. He’s sleeping.” Sam had a quick flash of regret over how that came out—especially since he and Dean were in separate beds—but he didn’t have time to explain what he’d said. He looked over at his brother, completely unable to believe that fool was still snoozing when their father was on the phone, but before he could say anything more, John spoke again.   
  
“Wake him up for me, son. I need to talk to him.”  
  
Sam blinked, a thousand things whirling in his head that he wanted to say but that he somehow _wasn’t_ saying. Instead, he followed the order and flung his pillow across the room where it landed smack dab on Dean’s exposed belly.  
  
“Dean! Wake up!”  
  
His brother sat up, instantly angry, and hurled the pillow back—hard. “What the fuck are you doing, asshole? Pumping me full o’ rock salt wasn’t enough fun for one night?!” Dean glared at him and Sam just stared back, eyebrows peaked, holding the phone to his ear.  
  
“Who is that?” the older brother snapped.  
  
“Dad.” Sam held the phone out between the beds. “For you.”  
  
Dean’s face went slack and then he was out of his bed like a shot. He landed on Sam’s bed and grabbed his brother’s hand that was holding the cell phone. He turned the phone facing up and leaned into it, motioning for Sam to lean in, as well. Their foreheads connected and they listened closely.  
  
“Dad?” Dean said, his voice husky from sleep and disbelief.  
  
“So,” John said, a bit of mirth in his tone. “Sammy’s already pissed off enough to shoot at you, huh?”  
  
Dean breathed a shaky laugh. “Yeah, well. It was only a matter of time. Where are you, Dad? Are you all right?”  
  
“I’m fine. I’m close. Are you boys all right?”  
  
“Yeah. We’re all good.” The brothers looked at each other, listened to the phone, held their breath, waited.  
  
On John’s end, there was a burst of static and then a distant, high-pitched whine that sounded vaguely like a train whistle. They could hear him walking—heavy boot heels thudding on gravelly concrete. When he spoke again he was almost whispering.  
  
“Ellicott?” he inquired.  
  
Instantly Dean reported. “Salted, torched and neutralized.”  
  
“And the civilians involved?”  
  
“Just a few scrapes, no casualties.”  
  
“Well done,” John said. “You’re still in Rockford?”  
  
“Yes,” the boys said in unison.  
  
“Good. I need you to write this down.”  
  
Dean waved his hand at the night table and Sam grabbed the notepad and pencil sitting there by the lamp. It had the logo of their motel emblazoned across the top.   
  
“Okay,” Dean said into the phone and John went on.  
  
“Twenty-nine miles southeast of you there’s a town called Watson. They’ve got a Fiji mermaid that needs killing. It’s a quick job—shouldn’t take you more than one night. Go to 7988 Susanna Street—it’s a bed and breakfast called The Whistle Stop. See the owner—a man named Earl Rainer. He’ll give you the details and he’ll put you up for the night. I’ll meet you there in 36 hours.”  
  
Sam scribbled quickly and Dean scanned what he wrote for accuracy.   
  
“Got it,” Dean said. “Dad, where have you—“  
  
“I’ll explain when I see you,” John said. “Just stay together, do this job for me. And shoot the mermaid, not each other. I’ll see you boys very soon.” The line went dead and they both stared at the phone as though it were a foreign object that might detonate at any second.  
  
“That’s it?!” Sam demanded. “That’s all he’s gonna say?”  
  
Dean closed the phone and tossed it on the night table. He ran his hands through his spiky hair and sighed, deeply. “At least we know he’s okay.”  
  
“How do we even know that was HIM?” Sam said, his voice tight and shrill. “Some freaky spirit called me at the asylum last night and it sounded just like YOU! We don’t know—”  
  
Dean reached over and rested his hand on Sam’s leg. “Easy, tiger. It was Dad. I’m sure of it.”  
  
“HOW?!”  
  
“I just know.” Standing up, Dean walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Sam was right on his heels, still holding the pad and pencil.  
  
“That’s shit,” he said to Dean’s reflection in the mirror over the sink. “If you have some sort of code with Dad, you’d better tell me! I’m sick of you keeping shit from me!”  
  
Dean turned on the water and splashed his face twice. “I’m not keeping anything from you, dumbass. There’s no code,” he said, reaching for a towel. “You heard the whole conversation for yourself. I just know it’s him. I can feel it in my bones. Maybe that’s my own brand of ESP.” He wiped his face then hung the towel over the shower rod. He turned to his brother in the doorway and leveled his gaze. “And I, for one, am damned relieved to know he’s okay.”  
  
Sam blinked, his heart hammering in his chest. Finally, he huffed a frustrated sigh then turned around and went back to his bed.  
  
Dean flipped off the bathroom light and headed back to his own bed. “Get some sleep,” he said. “Fiji mermaids are nasty little shits, we’ll need to be on our toes.”   
  
Sam flopped down on his bed with the pad still in his hand. He held it up and scrutinized what he’d written there. Something about it set his teeth on edge. “Dad’s sending us to a bed and breakfast in Watson, Illinois that somehow got itself a Fiji mermaid.”  
  
Dean made no reply. He just crawled under the covers again and fluffed his pillows.   
  
“Doesn’t this strike you as the least bit WEIRD, Dean?!!”  
  
Rolling onto his side, Dean said, “maybe. But it’s not the weirdest thing we’ve ever dealt with. It’s probably a runaway from some carnival side show.”  
  
“I don’t mean the mermaid,” Sam insisted. “I mean DAD. The call out of the blue! The whole fuckin’ THING!” He looked over at his brother but found Dean’s eyes already closed.  
  
“Get some sleep, Sammy.”  
  
Sighing, Sam tossed the notepad onto the night table and buried his face in a pillow.   
  
***  
  
“That way, Sam!!” Dean yelled, skidding on the midnight wet grass of the cemetery. He held up the pistol, heavy loaded with rock salt, and aimed just like his daddy taught him—just a little high and on the outside. He pulled the trigger, heard the bang and the spray of pellets as they vaulted into the air and then he saw the Fiji mermaid flip—twice, gruesome head over spiked tail. When it landed on the sodden grass, it made a decidedly satisfying plop.  
  
Scrambling to his feet, Dean ran back to the last place he’d seen Sam. His heart was pounding in his ears and he cast a wary glare at the flinching corpse of the ugly Fiji mermaid before he started calling his brother’s name.  
  
“Sam? Sammy! Where are you?”  
  
“Fuck!” The sound came from behind a black granite tombstone and Dean sprinted toward it. He found Sam rolled in a ball on his side in the wet grass, grasping his belly with both hands.   
  
“What happened?” Dean knelt down and tried to turn his brother over, but Sam shrieked in pain. Literally. At the top of his lungs.   
  
“ _Fuckingcocksuckingmotherfucker_!!! I think that little shit killed me!”  
  
“Let me SEE!” Dean demanded, prying apart his brother’s curled shoulders and bent knees. Sam’s torso was soaked in blood and the acrid, coppery scent of it almost made Dean start shrieking, himself. He swallowed, then peered closer, trying to get a better look at what was obviously a deadly wound.  
  
Sam growled and clenched his teeth, ripping at the wet grass under him with his fingers. “Can you see it? Is it bad? FUCK, it hurts!!”  
  
Dean stuck his flashlight in his mouth to free his hands and then he carefully pushed Sam’s blood-soaked shirt out of the way. In the unsteady beam of light, he couldn’t really see what was there—but he could tell one thing for sure. Stitches were required and quick.  
  
“All right,” he said, pocketing his flashlight again. “Come on. Put your arm around me. I’ve gotta get you to the car.”  
  
Sam stifled a wail but did as he was told. He hooked his arm around Dean’s neck and let his brother haul him to his feet, then they stumbled off across the slippery grass toward the car.   
  
“What about the mermaid?” Sam gasped.  
  
“It’s dead.”  
  
“You can’t just leave it there. OW!!” He doubled over again.  
  
“It’s a Fiji mermaid, Sam. It’ll disintegrate to a snot streak at first light. You know that. Now shut up and save your strength.”   
  
Once they reached the car, Dean pulled open the door to the backseat and helped Sam inside, laying him out along the bench. As soon as he laid down, Sam clutched his belly wound and howled in pain. Dean stretched over the front seat and reached under it until he found the handle for their father’s first aid kit. Yanking it into the backseat with them, he flipped open the black plastic lid and started rifling the contents frantically. He knew what he needed and the fact that he couldn’t find it right away was starting to freak him ALL the way out.   
  
Sam wailed again, kicking the front seat with his foot. He was beyond coherent thought but he kept yelling obscenities. Maybe it helped deaden the pain.   
  
Dean tried to steady his breathing and concentrate as he searched through the vials and packets in the box, looking for those compact little 4mg jars of morphine. Finally, under a roll of gauze, he located three vials tucked in next to the small plastic case holding the syringe. Quickly, he assembled the shot—just like his daddy taught him, all those years ago. He tore the plastic off the syringe, stabbed the needle into the seal on one of the jars, then carefully drew the serum up into the plastic chamber. All the while, Sam flinched and cussed beside him. When he’d finished loading the shot, he set the first aid kit on the floor of the backseat then reached for his brother’s arm.  
  
“Sammy, hold still.”  
  
More cussing, more hissing, more flinching. Sam couldn’t hear him through the pain.  
  
Pursing his lips nervously, Dean took Sam’s left wrist and pushed his sleeve out of the way, exposing the web of veins along the inside of his forearm. In the light from a nearby streetlamp, he could just make out the biggest vein—and without hesitation, he pierced it with the needle. Sam seemed to not even notice this intrusion or perhaps—in light of the big picture—he just didn’t give a shit. Slowly, Dean released the morphine into his brother’s body and then he withdrew the syringe. A tiny blood spot appeared where the needle had been, but Sam flinched away from him too quickly for him to tend to it. Just as well. That little pin prick was the least of his problems.  
  
Dean watched his brother breathlessly, waiting for the drug to work. Taken intravenously morphine kicked in almost immediately. Inside his head, Dean said a prayer that it would give Sam enough relief—and do it quickly. Dean had to get to that wound with some thread and antibiotics. He sat frozen while he waited, never taking his eyes off Sam’s pain distorted face.   
  
All at once, Sam’s entire body seemed to just . . . let go. He sighed and collapsed on the back seat, his head lolling to one side as the drug coursed through him, working its narcotic mojo. Dean could see his brother’s green eyes sparkling, wide open. They looked at each other.  
  
“Better?” Dean said.  
  
“Yup.” Sam was still panting from his exertions but he was clearly in less agony. “Much.”   
  
Dean picked up the first aid kit again and placed it between his legs on the seat. He lifted Sam’s shirt up and out of the way, exposing the ragged, oozing gash in his lean-muscled belly. Dean soaked a piece of gauze in rubbing alcohol, then used the cloth to clean away the debris and clots of dried blood obscuring the wound. He frowned at what he saw.  
  
“Is it bad?” Sam whispered. “It’s bad, huh? Is it mortal? Is this it? Did that fuckin’ thing off me?!”  
  
Dean squinted at the wound uneasily, profoundly concerned about its depth. He felt Sam looking at his face and he lifted his eyebrows. “Only if you’re a wuss,” he said. “You’ll be fine, dude. But you need a few stitches. I’m just gonna dress the wound now so you can keep pressure on it and stop the bleeding. We’ll get you to the motel and I’ll sew you up.” He focused on cleaning the wound as much as possible, then he pressed a fresh piece of sterilized gauze over it. “Hold this for me,” he told Sam who reached for the bandage in slow motion. He belonged to the morphine now and his reactions were considerably delayed.   
  
Dean waited to make sure his brother was applying enough pressure to the wound, then he closed the first aid kit and put it and himself into the front seat. Starting the engine, he turned back to his brother sprawled out and bleeding behind him.   
  
“Hang in there, Sammy. Just try to relax. We’ll be back at the motel in no time.”  
  
Sam looked at him with glazed eyes but he had nothing to say. Dean turned back around and pulled out onto the road.  
  
***  
  
4 milligrams of morphine wasn’t much of a dosage, but there wasn’t much to Sam Winchester. The drug had made him loopy and unable to walk without assistance. Dean had to carry him into their room, taking care not to call any undue attention to themselves. The hour worked in their favor as the other guests of Earl Rainer’s quaint little Illinois B &B were fast asleep.  
  
Dean brought a pillow into their bathroom and propped Sam’s head up against the wall behind the toilet. His long legs were stretched out and Dean knelt between them, the first aid kit open on the bathroom floor. He’d got Sam’s shirt off and cleaned the wound properly, and there in the bright overhead light he could finally see what he was dealing with.   
  
Sam’s breathing was slow and a bit labored, but that was more from the drug than his injury. The wound had stopped bleeding and was already beginning to cauterize, which was a bitter blessing from his attacker. Fiji mermaid saliva was rich in alkaline acids that had inadvertently assisted in binding Sam’s torn flesh. Unfortunately, that acid had also been the main source of the grizzly pain.   
  
Dean worked quickly threading a sterilized surgical needle with catgut. He glanced up at his brother before he started stitching, just to see if Sammy was still awake. Those heavy-lashed dark green eyes were watching Dean closely, fully conscious and aware.   
  
“You all right, buddy?”  
  
“’S all good,” Sam slurred. “Patch me up, doc.”  
  
Dean’s lips tilted in a grin. “Don’t be a baby, now.”  
  
“No way, José.”  
  
They smiled at each other and then Dean went to work.  
  
Carefully, steadily, he knit the two sides of the gash together, tying them closed with the thread. Each time he pierced Sam’s skin they both winced, but Sam toughed it out. When Dean looked up about half way through, he saw tears rolling down his brother’s face, but he wasn’t _crying_ or anything. His eyes were just watering a little.   
  
Sam sniffled and lifted his hand—apparently to wipe his face—but then he just relaxed again. Dean paused for a minute.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Okey-dokey.”  
  
Reaching up with his free hand, he wiped Sam’s wet cheeks with his thumb.   
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Dean winked and then went back to work.  
  
For a long time, Sam just sat there letting himself be stitched. Dean could feel him watching every move he made, following the needle and thread with unfailing focus. A nasty scar was inevitable from a bite like this one, but neither of them were too bothered by that. John Winchester’s boys had grown up learning to appreciate their battle scars as badges of honor. The gnarlier the scar, the better the war story. Sam would be able to tell his story of slaying a vicious Fiji mermaid with heaps of pride.  
  
“Look at you,” Sam said suddenly and Dean glanced up at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re all . . . on your knees between my legs and you’re not sucking me off.” He breathed a weak laugh. “What’s wrong with this picture?”  
  
Dean snickered, shook his head a little. “You’re loaded, Sam.”  
  
“I KNOW! You got me sooooo stooooooned, dude. What’d you gimme?”   
  
“Morphine,” Dean told him. “Only 4 milligrams. If you weren’t so skinny, you wouldn’t be so wasted. It’ll wear off in a few hours.”  
  
“Oh,” Sam sighed. “Bummer.” He giggled a bit more, then he suddenly sobered up. “You DID kill it, right? That little . . . baaaaastard.”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Dean assured him. “I killed it hard. Made it flip ass-over-eyeballs twice.”  
  
Sam grinned, satisfied. “That’s my big brother . . .” Then he looked down at the wound again and his smooth brow crinkled in dismay. “That little fucker really GOT me.”  
  
“He wasn’t playin’.”  
  
“Damn,” Sam complained, slurring. “I HATE it when they get me!”  
  
Dean glanced at his brother’s handsome young face. “I hate it, too. Now hold still, I’m almost done.” He ran two more stitches through the wound then clipped the thread and tied it off tightly. He examined his work while he cleaned it once more with alcohol and decided it was a pretty decent job. Looking up at Sam, he lifted his eyebrows hopefully. “What do ya think, Frankenstein?”  
  
Sam leaned forward a bit and investigated his new stitches. “Good job,” he concluded, and then he tilted precariously forward, leaning toward Dean.  
  
His brother stopped him with his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Whoa, careful—you’ll pull the stitches out. Where do you think you’re goin’?”  
  
Weaving slightly, Sam brought his index and middle fingers up to Dean’s lips and touched them with blatant admiration. “I’m going _there_ ,” he said, then he licked his lips and tried to lean forward again.   
  
Dean laughed under his breath and gently guided Sam back toward the pillow. “You have to sit back,” he said. “Don’t tear my sutures, dude. I don’t want to have to do that again. It’s freakin’ gross.”   
  
Sam regarded the toilet seat under him with grave concern and then looked at Dean very seriously. “I can’t stay here all night. What if I slip off? I’ll crack my skull.”  
  
“I’ll help you to bed when I’m done,” Dean said, speaking slowly so his intoxicated brother could follow. “I just have to put a bandage on you. Sit still for me, Sammy, okay?”  
  
“But . . . I need a kiss. It won’t get better if you don’t kiss me, Dean. You, of all people, should know THAT. Kisses make it all better.”  
  
Chuckling, Dean said, “You’ll get plenty of kisses—you always do. Just behave for a minute and let me finish.” He tore open a large rectangular bandage and pulled the protective strip back. Carefully, he placed the bandage over Sam’s new stitches and pressed the adhesive into place. He stood up, brushed off his knees, then bent over Sam’s prostrate form. “All right, come on. Get hold of my neck.”  
  
Sam lifted his arms very slowly, as though he were in a dream. In lots of ways, he was dreaming and most likely enjoying it. When he finally got his arms draped around Dean’s shoulders, he pressed his lips into Dean’s and kissed him, wanton and wet—just like a drunken prom date. Dean’s skin tingled all over and he almost lost his balance.  
  
“Phew . . .” he said, giving his brother a flirty grin. “Settle down for a minute, lover boy. Let’s get you to bed.” He steadied himself and lifted Sam up off the toilet seat and to his feet. “Don’t use your abs any more than you have to,” he instructed. “Lean on me.”  
  
It took him a minute to negotiate his balance, but then Sam let Dean guide him out of the bathroom and over to one of the beds. The entire room was decorated in white chintz and lace and they’d both laughed about the foofy décore when they checked in. Dean was concerned they’d get blood stains on the fine linens, but it seemed that Sam was done bleeding by then. He eased his brother down onto the bed and into the pile of lacy throw pillows, arranging them under his head, back and arms to keep him from rolling over by accident. The entire time he was doing this, Sam was watching him—those moss colored eyes twinkling with keen and playful interest.   
  
“You smell soooo good, Dean,” he said, reaching for Dean’s belt with his long fingers. “You’re making my tummy rumble. Come here . . .” He pulled hard catching Dean unaware and tipping him forward. He caught himself with his knees and hands on the mattress just before he piled right on top of Sam’s wounded torso.  
  
“Careful . . .” Dean warned, but he didn’t mean it. This aggressiveness was intensely arousing to him because it was so unusual. When he wanted affection, Sam’s M.O. leaned more toward flirtatious subtleties and manipulations than toward grabbing Dean and throwing him down. But this was good, too. Dean could deal with this.  
  
Balancing on the mattress, he straddled his brother’s prone body and bent down to meet his wet, waiting lips. Sam’s skin was on fire, blazing from the morphine and from his blood rushing to heal his wound. He felt feverish and moist, pulsing with life. His tongue slid into Dean’s mouth, stroking, seeking, tickling . . . it knew just where to go and what to do when it arrived. The drug had him totally uninhibited and Sam’s fingers were up under Dean’s shirt in seconds flat. He sucked his brother’s lips a little too hard, but Dean didn’t mind. He just sighed with pleasure and let Sammy do whatever he wanted. It was all good—even the raw, swollen lips he’d have in the morning.  
  
Sam’s hands stroked Dean’s naked skin greedily, tugging the tuft of honey blond hair just below his navel. Sam loved that spot and always went to it, even when he wasn’t aware of it. Sometimes when they were just lying around watching television, Sam’s fingers would seek out those silky hairs and pull and toy with them for hours, driving Dean completely nuts with longing. The small, tickling touches always made him crave more and Sam knew that. If nothing else, Sam was an expert on what got Dean’s motor revving.  
  
Breathing into each other, the brothers rubbed their noses together and kissed like hungry puppies. They made soft suckling sounds and murmured little things to each other that would have been nonsense to anyone else. This was their language, their music. This was their impenetrable fort made out of ugly motel bedspreads, bad diner food and long nights escaping into each other until they were spent and exhausted. This territory belonged only to Sam and Dean and it was a spiritual, sacred space.   
  
Dean shivered from the lush prickle of Sam’s evening whiskers against his own. He wanted to feel those whiskers on his thighs and belly. He loved the way Sam would nuzzle him when they were really hot and heavy, when there was nothing else in the world but sucking, tasting, pleasing, biting each other until they were wet and slippery from head to toe. Dean pressed his nose into Sam’s hot neck and opened his lips on the moist skin there, nipping the flesh—and not very gently. He knew his brother liked that and was soon rewarded by Sam trembling beneath him and moaning deep in his chest.  
  
When Sam’s hips lifted up to meet Dean’s, he was brought suddenly back to reality. He pulled up and made Sam look at him. “Watch it, kiddo,” he said, nodding to the bandage on the younger man’s belly. “Let me drive. Remember, you’re hurt.”  
  
“I’m not hurt,” Sam said petulantly, drunkenly. “I’m _damaged_. That’s what I told the doctor. That I’m damaged goods.”  
  
Dean blinked, his brow knitting in the center. “What doctor was this?”  
  
Sam sighed at him, as though he were missing the most obvious thing on earth. “Dr. Ellicott, retard.”  
  
Frowning, Dean rolled over carefully so he was snug against Sam’s warm left side, away from the wound. “Was this conversation . . . before or after I barbequed his bones?”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, full of inebriated, exaggerated irritation. “Dean, did you start smoking pot again? Your short term memory is jacked. Not that one—the OTHER one.”  
  
“The other one,” Dean repeated, still completely confused and trying not to chuckle at his brother’s amusing intoxication.  
  
“The other Doctor Ellicott,” Sam said, speaking slowly as though it were Dean who was on mind-altering pain killers instead of himself.   
  
Finally, it all came clear in one bright flash. “Ooooh,” Dean said and then Sam said it with him, as though they were wolves harmonizing on the woods.   
  
“See? You gotta keep up.” Sam smiled and tried to roll into Dean’s body, but his brother stopped him with his hand on Sam’s hip.  
  
Without a word, Dean got back up on his knees and straddled Sam’s body. They kissed several times very softly and then the temperature cranked up again.  
  
Into a hot, licking kiss, Dean whispered. “You told me you were talking to the doctor about the hospital.”  
  
“I was,” Sam replied, his teeth grabbing Dean’s bottom lip and holding on. “For twenty-two minutes on the clock. For the other twenty-eight, we talked about me. It was on my dollar, after all.”  
  
Dean looked in his brother’s eyes, momentarily breaking their make-out session. “You actually used that psychiatrist for couch time?”  
  
“That’s his job,” Sam said, way too seriously.  
  
Dean chuckled, lowering his forehead onto Sam’s. “What did you talk about?”  
  
“Uh . . .” Sam frowned, took a deep breath, tickled the hairs below Dean’s navel absently. “Mostly . . . we talked about you.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yep. He . . . asked me how I felt about ‘this brother I was road-tripping with’. So, I told him.”  
  
Suddenly very apprehensive, Dean settled back into his position snuggling alongside his brother. He made sure Sam was looking at him and then he asked, “what, exactly, did you tell him, Sammy? Did you tell him anything about hunting?”  
  
“No,” Sam said decisively. He brought his long index finger to his lips and pressed it there in a big, animated gesture. “Not a word about hunting.”  
  
“Okay . . . then, what _did_ you tell him?”  
  
For a moment, Sam just looked at him—eyes dancing with a mischievous glint. “I told him . . . I was addicted.”  
  
“To . . ?” Dean coaxed.  
  
“To . . .” Sam leaned forward until his lips brushed Dean’s earlobe, and then he whispered. “To making my big brother come and whimper like a puppy-dog.” He giggled impishly and nuzzled Dean’s tender neck, making him shiver all over again.  
  
Dean’s cheeks heated up in embarrassment and he bit his lip. “You really told him that—you said those exact words?”  
  
“Yep.” Sam kissed him again, playing with his bottom lip with his tongue. “I told him I couldn’t stop kissing you . . . and that . . . if HE saw you, he’d know why because . . . your lips are sooo . . .” He trailed off because his tongue was otherwise engaged.  
  
“Uh huh,” Dean said. “And what did the good doctor have to say about all that?”  
  
“He said . . .” Sam’s fingers found that ticklish thatch of hairs below the navel again. “He said that I was in love with my brother . . . he said the name of this complex I guess I have. . . something in Latin . . . and that I had terribly, terribly naughty feelings for you. Entirely inappropriate feelings.” He shook his head back and forth and his shaggy chestnut bangs fell in his eyes. Dean brushed them out of the way.  
  
“I see,” Dean said, shifting his weight so he could press his swelling cock down into Sam’s through their jeans. “So . . . this doctor told you that you were in love with me. Like . . . doves and violin music and shit?”  
  
“That’s the stuff. He said . . . my feelings were acutely romantic toward you. I forget . . .” Sam’s nose wrinkled like the little boy he used to be and his tickling, wandering fingers landed on the buckle of Dean’s belt. “I can’t remember that Latin complex he said . . . It’s not Oedipus . . . cuz that would be about mom . . .”  
  
“Doesn’t matter.” Dean kissed that wrinkled nose then kissed the pink mouth beneath it—anything to make Sam stop talking about their mom in that context. “So, if you’re in romantic love with me, should I be expecting flowers and candy sometime soon? Maybe something sheer and pretty from Victoria’s Secret? A little blue box with a white ribbon?”  
  
Sam giggled like a child again, reaching up to poke lazily at one of the flouncy pillows behind his head. “I think all this chintz is getting to you, Dean. The only prezzies you’re getting from me are gonna be . . . the dirty, hot, naked kind . . .” He grinned and Dean felt his belt being slipped off through the loops on his jeans.   
  
“Those are my favorite,” Dean purred and in the next instant they were kissing again, deep, hungry and hot. Dean had to struggle to keep Sam from moving too much. He kept trying to tangle his legs up with Dean’s and trying to roll over on top of him—like they would if one of them didn’t have a big hole in their gut. He reminded his brother of his wound again and again, using firm, admonishing touches to keep Sam on his back. After about ten minutes of that rough play, Sam got frustrated. He heaved a sigh and fell back against the chintz pillows.  
  
“Stop doing that! I have to come, Dean. This is riDICulous.”  
  
Dean burst out laughing before he even thought about it and when he looked at Sam again, his brother was scowling irritably.  
  
“I’m totally serious.”  
  
“That’s why it’s funny, Sammy.” He laughed again. “You should see your face. It’s like you’re contemplating ways to end world hunger.”   
  
Finally, Sam got the joke and started chuckling, too. “Not world hunger, just MINE. Come ON, Dean! Work with me!”  
  
Still laughing, Dean sat up and pulled his shirt over his head, then he wiggled out of his jeans and shorts. Once he was naked, he crawled on top of Sam and carefully disrobed him starting at the top. He stopped at every few body parts to have a taste of that silky young skin and then finally, they were both naked. In a moment of forethought, Dean tugged the white lacy bedspread out of the way, setting it aside so they wouldn’t leave any evidence on it.   
  
“Good thinkin’,” Sam said, tapping his temple with his finger. He reached for his brother’s neck with his long fingers and pulled Dean down into a kiss, wriggling against his naked body with his own. “Oooh, God . . .” he moaned. “Everything feels so fucking goooood. I love this drug.” His thighs parted around Dean’s hips and he pressed his cock up into the warm flesh below his brother’s navel.  
  
“You just love that spot, don’t you?” Dean whispered against Sam’s ear.   
  
“I wanna come there,” the younger brother murmured. “Right there on your belly.” His hips pumped greedily and he sucked Dean’s lips as though he intended to break the skin. All at once, Dean’s torso was shot with creamy fluid and Sam was whining and quivering with pleasure. Dean held onto him, nuzzled his neck and earlobes, whispered secret little things to him until the orgasm subsided. When the spasms stopped, Sam was still panting and he started to giggle again.  
  
“Whoa,” he said and his smooth cheeks blushed crimson. “Guess I was in a hurry!”  
  
Dean grinned, kissed his brother again. “It’s the morphine. Just enjoy it.”  
  
“Oohhh . . . I am.” Sam’s fingers were in Dean’s hair again, tugging at the short dark blond strands with a delicious amount of force. He wiggled against Dean’s erection suggestively and then he smiled. “I can’t sit up,” he purred against another kiss. Then they looked at each other. “Feed me?”  
  
Dean’s heart galloped and he licked his lips, grinning wolfishly. “Are you kidding me, Sammy?” he said. “I haven’t done that in ages.”  
  
“Cuz I’m usually crawling all over you and you don’t have a chance. But I know you love doing it . . .” Sam bit his brother’s lip just hard enough to elicit a deep moan. “So, feed me, Dean.”  
  
Dean Winchester did NOT need to be asked twice. He raised up on his knees and balanced himself against the wall above the headboard. His stiff cock bobbed anxiously in front of him and he grasped it, tilting his hips down and back until the head of his cock brushed Sam’s open, hot lips. They looked in each other eyes, Dean gasped, swallowed hard and then he eased forward into his brother’s mouth. Sam moaned, causing a deep, heavy vibration that Dean could feel all the way back to his anus. Just before Dean lost himself in fresh carnal pleasure, Sam whispered to him.   
  
“I could always get you to do exactly what I wanted.” His green eyes twinkled with an almost sinister glow. Dean felt a fleeting desire to recoil but he fought it. He just held that intense gaze and slid his cock into Sam’s mouth.   
  
“Yes . . . you could,” he said and his nipples hardened with pleasure. “You were a very wicked boy, Sammy.” His head went back again and he rocked gently, stroking his cock in and out of that velvety, warm opening. It felt incredibly good—better than anything he could remember at the moment.  
  
_“You’re so easy, Dean.”_  
  
He flinched from the unexpected remark, but when he looked down, he was suddenly sure his brother hadn’t spoken out loud. Sam’s mouth was full of his own swollen cock and his pretty green eyes were fluttering as he let out another of those silky, vibrating moans. He seemed lost in the moment, abandoned to the sweet bliss of the task at hand. For whatever reason, Dean had to be sure.  
  
“Did you just tell me I was easy?” he whispered.  
  
Sam’s eyes widened and he froze. Dean slipped his cock out of that luscious, wet mouth and waited, heart pounding.  
  
“You heard that?” Sam said. “I didn’t . . . say it . . . I just . . .”  
  
Dean frowned. “Thought it?”  
  
Sam nodded and his brow crinkled slightly, mirroring Dean’s expression.   
  
Dean groaned. “Super. Now you’re a fucking telepath. What’s next, Sam? Bending spoons? Making the Empire State Building disappear?”  
  
Sam’s long fingers dug into Dean’s thighs high up, just below his ass cheeks. He absolutely hated it when Dean teased him about his burgeoning psychic abilities. They were beyond his control and made Sam feel even more like a freak than he already did. Those green eyes went flinty with anger as he stared at his brother and he tried to sit up. Dean shifted quickly and pressed his knee into Sam’s shoulder, forcing him down against the mattress.  
  
“I’m not the telepath, asshole,” Sam growled. “YOU’RE the one that heard me.” His fingers curled and his nails bit into Dean’s flesh threateningly.  
  
“Knock it off with the scratching, Sam,” the older brother warned. “Settle down.” He nodded to his swollen cock that he’d taken protective hold of with his fist. “Do you want this or not?”  
  
Sam’s eyes flitted to that straining, dripping erection again and his expression melted from growing anger to raw lust. He licked his lips and settled back against the pillows, his fingers reverting to stroking again. He pet Dean’s thighs up the back, along the inside, tickling gently until he reached the tender skin behind his brother’s balls. Looking up again, he smiled into Dean’s eyes invitingly.   
  
“Yes,” he whispered. “I want it. Feed it to me.” He opened his mouth and extended his pink tongue, dabbing it across the engorged head to gather the moisture beaded there.  
  
“If you bite me, I’ll snap your neck,” Dean said, even though he knew it wasn’t necessary. Even if it made no logical sense, he knew with the utmost certainty that Sammy would never hurt him. At least not intentionally and not while in his right mind.  
  
But then, he wasn’t exactly IN his right mind just then . . . was he?  
  
That brief hesitation made them look in each other’s eyes again. Sam’s fingers stroked Dean’s body softly, soothingly, gently caressing the fine blond hairs on his legs and ass, under his balls. Sam was careful to avoid that most secret crevice and this was not lost on Dean. That was another topic they’d been mutually, deftly avoiding.  
  
“Come on,” his younger brother said. “You know I won’t hurt you. I want to get you off, Dean. We can fight later.” He licked his lips again, parting them in offering.  
  
Desire overruled his sneaking suspicions and Dean slowly slipped his cock into his brother’s mouth again. Sam started sucking immediately, that talented tongue working its magic on all the nerve endings it knew so well. Dean closed his eyes for a second as he released a deep, breathy moan, but then he opened them again. He didn’t want to miss anything. This angle was too erotic, too powerful . . . too dangerous.  
  
Unfettered by the morphine, Sam’s familiar techniques took on an aggressive urgency that had Dean trembling on the edge of orgasm in a matter of seconds. He felt his brother’s fingers teasing the hairs on his legs and then he felt them stroking his ass cheeks. It felt delicious and naughty and so, so good. Dean’s hips worked in shallow pumps the closer he got to shooting and the more compact his movements became, the more he relaxed. Right before he shot the first time, he felt the back of Sam’s silky index finger slip between his cheeks and stroke his anus. Bright sparks of tingling pleasure bolted through his body and Dean came so hard he screamed.  
  
He stopped thrusting and just let Sam suck as the hot seed burst out again and again. His forehead touched the wall above the bed and both his hands gripped the headboard tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Sam swallowed, sucked, moaned and his wicked finger kept stroking and stroking, all the way through the last milky squirt. That was when Dean’s knees gave out and he collapsed on the bed in a panting heap.  
  
Neither of them said anything for a long time. Dean lay there catching his breath and Sam stayed put, resting on his back like a good little patient. Normally, he would have crawled over and snuggled up next to his brother, kissing him and stroking his skin until he fell asleep. But that night, things were different—altered. That night, secrets were out like wild things running free in the darkness.  
  
Dean looked over and found Sam watching him. For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Sam’s fingers curled around Dean’s and gently held on.  
  
“You okay?” he said.  
  
Dean nodded, then he glanced at his brother’s bandaged wound. “How are my stitches?”  
  
“Fine. Morphine’s wearing off, I think.”  
  
“That means it hurts.”  
  
Sam nodded once.  
  
It took some effort to sit up because his limbs felt like they were made of concrete, but Dean stood and dragged himself to the bathroom where he’d left the first aid kit. He rummaged in it until he found a jar of Motrin and then he brought it back to the bedroom. He took a bottle of water out of a grocery sack on the dresser and brought both those things to Sam.   
  
“Take two of these,” he said, handing Sam the water. Dean uncapped the Motrin and shook out the tablets, then put them in his brother’s open hand.   
  
Sam popped the pills in his mouth and washed them down with half the water in the bottle. He handed what was left to Dean who finished it off. Tossing the bottle in the trash, he leaned over Sam and worked the covers down underneath him.  
  
“Get under,” he said and Sam slipped beneath the sheet.   
  
Dean adjusted the pillows behind his brother’s head, then he got in beside him, pulling the covers over them both. For a moment, he just laid there quietly, enjoying the warm pressure of Sam’s body next to his. He felt Sam’s eyes on his face, watching, searching.  
  
“Do you wanna talk?” the younger Winchester whispered.  
  
Dean just shook his head.  
  
“Why not, dude? We’ve got buttloads of issues.”  
  
Sighing, Dean reached over and turned off the lamp on the night table. The room wasn’t completely dark because the street lights outside were very close to the windows. That pale blue light made everything in the room look like it was under a veil.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“I need to sleep, Sammy. You do, too.” He rolled onto his side facing his brother and gently draped his arm over Sam’s hips. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”  
  
Dean closed his eyes and tried to relax, but he could feel the tension in Sam’s young body. It lasted for almost an hour before the kid finally dozed off.  
  
The end (for now)


End file.
